Lord of Fire (36 page)

She nodded, staring, stricken, at the blood flowing out from between his fingers, slowly staining his loose white shirt. “Oh, my God.”

“What the hell are you doing here?” he yelled at her, terrifying her.

“Lucien—you’re bleeding,” she whispered.

“I told you to stay away! You could have been killed! Get her out of here,” he curtly ordered the guard.

“I’m sorry!”

He brushed past her with a curse and hurried after his men, still holding his side.

“Lucien!” she screamed, but he ran down the steps.

Alice
followed, throwing off the guard’s grasp with the sharpest words she had ever uttered. Lucien was hurt. Her suspicions were forgotten. Nothing was going to keep her away from him. She rushed down the steps and back out to the Grotto. She saw him racing up the steps carved in the limestone and plunged into the crowd after him.

Lucien pounded up the steps, gritting his teeth at the burning pain in his side, then crashed through the Priapus door and crouched under the overhanging limestone as he ran along the narrow bank of rock that hugged the cavern wall. Damn it, he had been so close to breaking Sophia down when
Alice had appeared! He had realized in a flash how it must have looked to her. For one instant, his attention had been jerked away from his task, and it could have easily cost him his life. Sophia could have made it a mortal blow if she had wanted to, he realized grimly as he ran up the steps from the wine cellars into the house. A wave of dizziness from loss of blood hit him as he tore down the corridor toward the entrance hall, knocking a footman out of his way, but before he reached the door, he heard one of his lads scream, “Get her! She’s stabbed Lucien!”

A shot rang out. Two.

He let out a furious roar and burst out of the door. Immediately, he saw Sophia sprinting in a beeline toward the closed iron gates of Revell Court, as though she would climb over them, but even as he bellowed, “Hold your fire!” more shots followed.

She threw up her arms, sprawling forward, cut down midstride by gunfire.

“Hold your fire!” Lucien screamed again. He raced after her, flinging down onto his knees beside her. By the blazing glow of the courtyard’s iron torch stand, he saw that her back was riddled with seeping wounds.

“Oh, God. Sophia.” His heart was pounding, but he already knew it was beyond his skill to save her.

Her cheek lay on the cobblestones, and she stared at him, still alive, blood trickling from the corner of her mouth. Her eyes were terrified, glassy with fear. He knew she had only moments to live. He was afraid to move her for fear of making it worse.

“Argus,” she panted.

“I’m here,” he said softly in Russian. He touched her hair. “I’m so sorry,” he choked out.

At his words, she closed her eyes as in relief. “Now I am . . . free of him, Argus.”

He laid his hand atop hers. “What is he going to do, Sophie? Do this for me. Tell me. For both our countries.”

She struggled, agony written over her beautiful, ashen face. “He has . . . explosives. Guy Fawkes Night, Lucien. The . . . Americans want revenge for the . . . burning of . . .
Washington
. I don’t know where . . . he’ll strike. Maybe Parliament,” she gasped out.

Good God! Guy Fawkes Night was next Saturday, only eight days hence. Perhaps Bardou intended to make history repeat itself, Lucien thought grimly. In 1605, a group of Jacobite conspirators had hired military veteran, Guy Fawkes, to blow up the House of Lords with the king and the whole peerage inside, but the plot was discovered before it could be carried out—and, by the grace of God, so would Bardou’s. “Has he arrived in
London yet?”

She gave an almost imperceptible nod.

“Where has he set up operations?”

“Warehouse . . . by . . . the . . . river.”

“Sophia, the river is lined with warehouses—”

“Be . . . careful, Argus. He is . . . coming . . . after you.” Her agonized whisper ended in a pitiable moan.

“Shh, gently, gently,” he whispered in her native tongue, holding her hand and stroking her hair as he realized death was upon her.

He closed his eyes at the awful rattle in her throat as she drowned in her own blood; then he bowed his head. Her dying whisper still hung upon the night’s silence.

He is coming after you.

When Lucien flicked his eyes open, there were flames in them. He had a hellish inferno burning in his heart and fire in his veins.
Let him come.
His mind churned with hatred, calling forth the savage, primal beast that he had turned into after five weeks of living like an animal in a cage: starved, beaten, unwashed. Their brutality had made him cruel when he had finally managed to escape. He had stolen silently from man to man in the darkness, cutting each one’s throat, not moving on to the next until he had stood and watched each one of his torturers die. But Bardou had not been there that night. He had gone to kill Patrick Kelley, using the information he had wrenched from Lucien under torture. Bardou had escaped his retribution.

This,
Lucien thought darkly,
was his chance for revenge
.

As he looked up,
Alice came toward him with uncertain steps.
She would have to be protected,
he thought.
If Bardou found out that she was his woman, he would strike at her and kill her without hesitation, especially now that Lucien’s men had shot Sophia.
He noticed the bewilderment in her eyes as she tried to comprehend, no doubt, the murderous savagery she read in his. He dropped his gaze, not wanting her to know this part of him.

He reached down and gently closed Sophia’s glazed, staring eyes.

The terrible stillness was broken only by the popping of sparks from the great torch stand. Its flames billowed against the black night, illuminating the courtyard and outlining Lucien’s hair and shoulders in a golden halo as he crouched by the fallen woman’s side. There was a harsh, remote look in his beautiful face and a menace in his silence that made
Alice fear to speak. She stared at him, her accusations forgotten.

A pool of crimson was spreading over the cobblestones all around the woman. The guards were standing around watching uneasily, their rifles hanging from their grasps. When Lucien slowly lifted his gaze,
Alice realized aghast that the woman was dead.

She covered her mouth with her hand in shock. Guilt welled through her.
This is my fault.
If she had not been filled with jealousy, she would not have been on hand to distract Lucien; then the woman would not have cut him and would not have been shot down trying to escape. Staring at the body,
Alice felt light-headed with horror. Someone was dead because of her.

Lucien swept to his feet. “Who fired?” he asked in a calm, low, hellish voice that sent chills of sheer dread down her spine.

No one answered.

“Who gave you the order to open fire?”

“B-but, my lord, they told us she had stabbed you,” one of the big guards offered.

“Do I look dead to you?”
he screamed.

Alice
flinched. The echo of his voice carried on the wind.

“N-no, sir,” the guard answered, bowing his head.

Alice
gathered her composure quickly and started toward him. “Lucien—”

“Get back in the house. I want a word with you. You directly defied my orders.” His voice was steely. He turned to his men. “I want whoever did this gone by morning. Collect your pay from Mr. Godfrey and get out. McLeish, see to the body. Do it quickly.”

“Aye, my lord.”

When Lucien and she walked into the house, she saw the bloodstain spreading down his side through his white shirt. “Your wound—”

“Upstairs,” he ordered, shrugging her off.

Alice
pursed her lips as he climbed the stairs ahead of her. In the corridor, she ordered a maid to bring hot water, scissors, and bandages to His Lordship’s bedchamber; then she hurried after him.

In his chamber, he took a medical box out of the trunk at the foot of his bed and set it on the chest of drawers. “You know, I was going to
lock
you in your room tonight to make sure you didn’t interfere; but I had already given you the key, and I said to myself, no, I must trust her. That’s the point of everything between us. Can I trust you or can’t I,
Alice? Because, at the moment, I’m not convinced.” Angrily unbuttoning his shirt, he pulled back the blood-drenched cloth from his side, revealing the wound.

“Lucien—” she started, then stopped, shuddering as she looked at the four-inch horizontal slice across his ribs.

The sight of the blood and the smell of the alcohol he poured onto a clean rag from the medicine box reminded her in awful, vivid detail of tending her brother’s terrible injuries. Lucien let out a stream of curses as he pressed the brandy-soaked bandage to his side. His oaths snapped her into action. The bloody-minded fool would have her help whether he wanted it or not. She pressed him back to sit on the wide, sturdy dresser before he passed out on the floor.

“Hand me the needle and thread,” he growled. “I need stitches.”

“I’ll do it.”

“The hell you will. I’m not a handkerchief for your fancy embroidery and I
don’t
need you mothering me. It’s just a flesh wound. I want to know what you have to say for yourself.”

“Never mind that, Lucien! We have to bind your wound first. Let me help you.”

“I’ll do it myself.”

“You can’t reach that.”

“Yes, I can. Now give me the blasted needle.”

“Shut up and lie
down
!” she ordered fiercely.

“
Alice!”

“Lucien. Who do you think took care of my brother when he came back from the battlefield covered in wounds?”

He stared at her for a moment in defiance. “All right, then,” he grumbled. He winced, glanced again at his cut, took a swig from the brandy bottle, and offered no further objections. The maid brought in the items
Alice had asked for, and Lucien eased back onto his elbow on the dresser, reluctantly allowing her to patch him up.

Neither of them spoke as she cleaned his wound, holding bandage after bandage against it until the bleeding slowed enough for her to make the stitches. She threaded the needle, dipped it in the brandy, and grimaced as she sewed his torn flesh closed. Forcing aside her guilt over the terrible thing she had caused and her dread at the ramifications of it, she gave her present task her single-minded concentration.

She could feel Lucien staring at her while she worked. She tied off the first stitch and snipped the thread, then glanced at him, letting out a breath. “About nineteen more to go, I should think.”

He let out a rebellious snort, but did not argue. Working as quickly as possible for the next half hour, she blotted the wound often with the brandy-soaked rag, her hands covered in his blood. God, she could have lost him and it would have been all her fault. She suppressed the urge to take him into her arms and hold him tightly, knowing it would only make her emotional when she needed a clear head. She brushed the sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand, then made the next stitch in his side.

“So,” he said after a moment. “You thought you’d check up on me. Was it worth it?”